Today, like all rather disappointing things, came too early. When last my blogging words gently caressed your screens, I had 7 days left and boy did I have a plan for those final daily blogs. However, what followed that post was day after day of truly, inconceivably fun adventures that pushed my ability to write words in English out the window. I have now run out of time to write these amazingly insightful, incredibly hilarious and unbelievably brilliant blog posts, so please just pretend you have enjoyed a week’s worth of genius and laugh heartily.

What I can comment on, however, is an educational Friday, where not only did I learn that no matter how hard I try, American Football is beyond my abilities, that it’s never a good idea to down a bottle of vodka and then jump in the river but also that apparently, buttholes and vaginas are equally as nice, no matter what may be in your grandpa’s backpack. This Barbecue, arranged by myself and Lavinia proved a success of many proportions which led smoothly into Saturday where road trips were the agenda, and naked bathing was the result. With the lovely chauffeur, Rob, driving away down the autobahn, Patricia, John, Dave and I took turns as backseat drivers and upfront spidermans until we arrived as Baden Baden. A place so good, they named it twice. Sort of.

This was the day I got to wear a suit. Let’s give that a moment to sink in. Yes. Being taken to a casino whose caliber made me feel like the dirtiest white trash, we suited up and took to the gambling tables like… well, gamblers. I even won twice. The night rolled on and the sekt poured in and, once again we became educated, this time as to why it’s never a good idea to have a bath in the middle of your hotel room. Giving the writers of The Hangover a run for their money, we carried on into the next day, where we got to throw off all our fabric illusions, bare our true sides and reveal our darkest places in the eponymous naked baths of Baden Baden. A place of saunas, scrub downs and ice baths, it was quite an education indeed. Being scrubbed raw by a middle aged woman who was also deciding to give me emotional counselling as to my self worth is not an event I’ll soon forget.

So yes, we’ve scrubbed up, kept it down and exploded out. I’ve drunk wine and watched the sunrise creep into Heidelberg from the valley, its broken golden glow crisp against the red of the rooftops. With more goodbye drinks with the fantastic remaining Erasmi, this has been a week of adventures, bounces, dramatic bandits and the best company. The time has come to start cleaning my room, I’ll do my best not do die from disease.

So England lost to Italy yesterday? I guess that ball was just too greasy for them to handle. Normally I approach football like I do any other form of entertainment; follow its progress, enjoy the games, discuss and banter over it with my mates. Like watching a film, when the game is on screen, I feel the fun and ride the excitement, and when it’s over I turn it off and return to my daily life. Last night however was possibly the first time I’d actually felt a sense of disappointment continue post-match. I’ve looked at Football fans when their team lose and fail to conceive just why they would let something so detached from the real world negatively affect their emotions. Even now, I find it ridiculous. Football, and its following, is the geekiest thing in existence and the emotional discharge is just as illogical. I admire any passion, and look up to anyone who can harbour such love for a pastime, but can only shake my head in confusion when actual depression follows failure. I may have already announced my loyalty to the German squad but still I feel England could have, or possibly even should have, gotten further. Alas.

Somewhere that could have done with going further and perhaps in the right direction was mine and Zoe’s escapade to Bülder Haus in Rohrbach. Just some casual rock climbing to pass a sunny evening. One and a half hours later, and we were still searching for the bloody place. It would appear that Germans, like Lawyers, will insist on giving you an answer even when they have no idea whatsoever. It was this process that left us being confronted by American Military Guards, characteristically not speaking a word of German, and getting stuck in a surreal Ghost town of children’s playgrounds, fenced-in front lawns and dark windows that is Mark Twain Village. I’m sure that if the literary realist and charmingly witty pontificator was aware that a village had been constructed in his name he would have been confused at best. Throw in that it’s a military town and I dare say mister Twain would’ve thrown a whimsical fit.

A few cheeky hours later and I saw evidence as to how rock climbing genuinely outclasses sex, after all, you can choose the length and width of your rope, leave your protection for guys after you, there’s lots of cracks and the only rubber you wear is on your feet. Either that or I really need to improve my understanding of intercourse.